


Four Words Less

by Crack File (CarnivorousMoogle)



Category: The Lorien Legacies - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Characters with Different Views Than the Author, Fix Fic, M/M, alien teenagers fall in love; learn how not to be assholes, discontinued fic, divergent canon, in-universe fattism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-11-15
Packaged: 2018-01-01 15:13:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1045414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarnivorousMoogle/pseuds/Crack%20File
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four words less can make such a difference.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tip of the Tongue

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not really sure where this pairing came from, to be honest; it just kind of clicked in my head, and I needed to write it, so here we are. I'm also not sure how long it's going to be. As long as it needs to be, I suppose. Rating may go up in later chapters, fair warning. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The words are there, but they don't come.

The words are on the tip of his tongue.

His lungs are still burning and spasming, coughing up foul water. He can’t feel his legs; everything else is a lump of pain. Six is unconscious on the ground. Eight is covered in jagged bites and claw wounds. Marina is angry and terrified.

All that tough talk, all that arrogance, all that trained-by-the-greatest-warriors-in-the-galaxy bullshit. Bullshit it was. If he hadn’t been caught by surprise by the most unfair goddamn Legacy in the world, he’d have whipped Five’s Frodo ass.

_(but you didn’t, did you)_

And in spite of all of it, they still had him beat.

And now, after lying to them, betraying them, attacking them (attacking his  _friends_ ), the bastard has the nerve to sit there and  _cry_.

The words are on the tip of his tongue.

Adrenalin is still burning through his blood

_(god, this would be great if it didn’t hurt so much)_

and he’s still full of rage

_(who is he kidding, he’s always full of rage, it hides but it never really goes away)_

and the primal drive to punch and kick and bite and claw and annihilate anything that touches the people who are his

 _(they are_  his _)_

and brain-to-mouth filters are for pussies.

The words are there, but they don’t come.

Maybe it’s because Five is one of exactly seven living Loric that he’s ever met, and something in his bones thinks that Nine owes his allegiance to anyone, anyone at all, who is left.

Maybe it’s because of that drive, and because a few days is long enough for him to claim someone as part of his family. We all have that one cousin we can’t stand.

Maybe it’s because he remembers how the fat dork stood up, faced him down, and broke his fist with his jaw.

Maybe it’s because he sees none of that calm, cold anger now, and because the terror and pain and loneliness and vulnerability he sees instead remind him of cells and smiling Mogs and the screams of a family and the screams of his Cêpan to  _please let it end_

Whatever it is, it hits and it hurts, and even though the traitorous asshole crying on the ground fills him with anger

_(guttural howling rage that makes him want to tear flesh with his teeth and scream at the world through the blood and hate in his mouth)_

the words die on his tongue, and he says nothing.


	2. Fidget

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marina and Eight hold hands, Six worries, Five twiddles, and Nine gets more and more irritated.

The trip back home is mostly uneventful.

Nine is relieved to be able to walk again. A fighter Marina is not, but he’ll take the lifelong use of his legs over his pride any day.

 _(which maybe isn’t_ entirely  _true, but Marina has proven herself to be a pretty non-shitty person and he has a healthy, if grudging, respect for her)_

Marina and Eight have been under a lot of stress, just like the rest of them, but now and then he sees them holding hands and smiling, and staring into each other’s eyes.

His first thought was to tease them about it; but they’ve been through a hell of a lot and are driving into god-only-knows-what-else, and he’s realized they deserve this.

_(that, and it hurts to look at them, two teenagers who made it back, both alive, both whole, and wonder why it couldn’t have gone that way for him)_

Six is cold, hard, silent fury. Her hands, when not in use, are balled into white-knuckled fists, and he can tell from the intensity of her expression and the worry-lines of her face that she is running through the outcomes in her mind, preparing herself for what they might find at the John Hancock Center.

Five hasn’t shown an inclination to escape, or murder them all in their sleep. They’ve kept the Chest away from him, and occasionally patted him down for anything else he might have picked up.

All the same there’s really nothing stopping him from taking off and flying away, and none of them want to let down their guard again, so they take turns watching him.

He doesn’t seem to care much. Mostly he just sits (or walks) and stares into space, and avoids eye contact whenever possible. He doesn’t talk to anyone, and no one tries to talk to him.

Sometimes Nine notices his hands fidgeting, fingers reaching out of nervous habit for his steel bearing and rubber ball, which have been safely hidden away. You’d think he’d get used to it eventually, you really would, but he just keeps on twitching.

It’s starting to piss Nine off a little.

This goes on for several days, during which they alternate between hitchhiking and camping. Marina and Eight hold hands, Six worries, Five twiddles, and Nine gets more and more irritated.

On the third night it’s his turn on watch. Six is wrapped up in her own sleeping bag; Eight and Marina are curled next to each other, so close that her slow breathing moves his hair.

Five is awake. It’s too dark to see what he’s looking at, but looking he is, arms resting on his knees. He is, as usual, not talkative, which Nine is thankful for.

Nine stares out over the flat, yellowed fields of wherever-the-hell-they-are, breathing deep in the warm night air. The moon is new, a barely-visible sliver, and stars sprawl across the sky. They’re a little distance from the road, but still close enough that he can catch a whiff of damp concrete mixed in with the smell of dry grass.

Slowly, bit by bit, he starts to relax.

Five chooses this moment to start fidgeting.

Nine grits his teeth and refuses to look, although he has to keep Five in at least his peripheral vision at all times. Stillness is not his natural state of being. Stillness with the addition of tiny, distracting movements is pure torture.

He wonders if maybe the hobbit-dork knows how annoying it is, and is doing it on purpose. If that’s the case, Nine decides, he won’t give him the satisfaction; if not, he’s definitely not going to let the bastard know how to drive him nuts.

A car drives past on the highway, headlights there and gone again, wailing into the night.

Silence.

And fidgeting.

Nine’s resolve lasts all of two minutes.

He straightens his back and raises his voice slightly. “If I see one more thumb-twiddle tonight,” he says, “I’m gonna drop-kick a puppy.”

Five glances up at him. He’s only a yard or two away, but Nine can’t see his expression. After a moment, he replies, his voice hoarse from disuse, “I don’t see any puppies around here.”

Implicit in his words is the dare to give the vague threat a form, to carry it to its conclusion.  _If you’re going to threaten me, do it properly,_ Nine thinks; a line from some movie he loved when he was a kid.

He’s sorely tempted to take that dare. But he’s noticed that, in the face of intimidation, Five gets all pissy and stubborn and refuses to play ball.

Ordinarily, he wouldn’t care. But if Five isn’t distracted he’ll go right on twiddling, and Nine will lose his damn mind.

So instead, he shrugs. “Eh. Marina and Eight would have my hide. Prisoner of war, code of honor and all that. I’ll just wait ‘til we get to the next town, and god help the first puppy I see.”

He thinks he sees Five’s mouth twitch at the corners. He’d never kick a puppy, of course, he’s always had a soft spot for dogs, but he’d joke about eating a kitten if it will make the twiddling stop for five minutes.

He tries to think of a good distraction. In the end, he can only think of one thing, stupid as it may be. “Wanna play rock-paper-scissors?”

Now Five really  _is_  staring at him. He hastily follows it up with “look, if I can’t beat your ass in battle then I might as well do it at kindergarten games.”

Five continues to stare.

“Not that I  _couldn’t_  beat your ass in battle,” Nine adds, even more quickly. “Like I said, though, Marina’d get mad as hell. Now are you gonna chicken out or what?”

That does the trick. Five scoots the short distance over the grass between them and holds out his hand. “What’re we betting?”

Nine pauses for a moment, and grins his too-sharp grin. “Loser has to pinch John’s ass when we get back. Deal?”

Five hesitates, and nods. “Deal.”

“Hope you’re ready to get Lumen’d, bitch.” Anger forgotten for the time being, Nine settles into a more comfortable position, starting the countdown.

“Rock paper scissors  _shit!”_

Now it’s Five’s turn to grin. “Best of three?”

 


End file.
